


Enemy of My Enemy

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [31]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Angst, Dragon Riders, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Porthos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: General Alaman of Spain offers to give France a new form of gunpowder in exchange for help rescuing his daughter. But Milady’s latest machinations cause the mission to end in disaster.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And now that Whumptober is done, we are back to the dragon rider verse!
> 
> Some dialogue from 2x3; it's not mine.

Chapter 1

Thunder rumbled and rain pattered heavily on the roof of the mess. Athos sat at one of the tables, a half eaten dinner pushed slightly to the side, his attention on the pistol he was cleaning. Not that he had much call to use it anymore. As captain of the Musketeers, he no longer went on missions away from Paris, and lately he wasn't even permitted to accompany the King on his dragon flights or stand at his side, thanks to the threat his ex-wife turned sorceress posed to him.

The drumming rain was an apt atmosphere for Athos's mood.

It also concealed the footsteps of the person coming up behind him. One arm snaked across his chest while another slid a knife up under his chin. Athos went rigid as a hoarse, accented voice breathed hotly in his ear.

"I warn you, I am a desperate man. If you resist, I will kill you."

Athos's pistol was still in his hand, but it wasn't loaded.

"I want an audience with your King," the intruder continued. "And I have no time to waste."

The sound of another gun cocking came from close to Athos's right.

"Drop it," Aramis said.

A second followed on Athos's other side.

"Do as he says," Porthos growled. "Or we'll kill you where you stand."

How fortunate his brothers had been engaged in equally dour brooding in the dark corners of the mess, the three of them keeping each other silent but steadfast company.

The intruder faltered at finding himself abruptly outnumbered, and after a beat of hesitation, pulled back. Athos stood and shrugged away from him roughly, crossing to the other side of the table to face his attacker. He frowned in confusion, the face triggering a flicker of recognition from one of his many intelligence briefings.

"I know you. You're in the Spanish Army."

Neither Aramis nor Porthos took their eyes or aim off the black man.

"This is General Tariq Alaman," Athos informed them.

"Former General," Alaman corrected. "Now persecuted by my own country. I have come here to offer my services to France. Believe me, your King will want to see what I have brought for him."

Athos regarded him shrewdly. A former Spanish general sneaking into the Musketeer garrison at night, accosting the captain…it did not inspire mutual trust.

"You have to know we will not simply take you to see the King," he said. "Not without more information."

The general's jaw ticked, but he held himself tall and proud. "I have a new form of gunpowder, one that will be Spain's decisive weapon in a future war with France should they get their hands on it. I am prepared to give up its formula."

Athos narrowed his gaze. "At what price?"

"The Spanish have kidnapped my daughter. They are holding her here, in Paris. I want her back."

"What makes you so sure she's being held here?" Aramis asked.

"We fled Spain together. We thought we were safe in Paris. We were followed by General Baltasar and his Spanish agents. She went to the market. I haven't seen her since."

"Then she might be dead by now," Athos pointed out.

"No," Alaman replied staunchly. "She is the bait. It is me they want. Not her." He drew his shoulders back further. "Will you take me to see the King or not?"

Athos considered it for a long moment. "In the morning," he finally agreed. "Porthos, see the general gets a bed for tonight."

Aramis and Porthos finally lowered their weapons, and Porthos gestured gruffly for Alaman to accompany him out. The general paused to give Athos an assessing look, perhaps to judge if he was concealing any deceit, then obliged.

"Do you think this Alaman is sincere?" Aramis asked when they'd gone out into the storm.

"Why risk so much if he isn't?" Athos replied.

Aramis canted his head at that. "What about the King?"

Athos sighed. Louis was not going to want to see him. But Athos was still captain of the Musketeers and this was sensitive business, which meant he was personally going to walk Alaman to the palace and oversee his audience with the King.

"He can't avoid us forever."

.o.0.o.

Athos sent word to Treville first the following morning, apprising the First Minister of the situation and letting him act as a sort of buffer between the musketeers and the King. Then Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan escorted Alaman to the Louvre, though the general requested they remain outside for a demonstration of this new gunpowder he was toting.

A few moments later, the King emerged with Treville, two advisors, attendants, and a pair of palace guards. Louis was still in his nightgown.

"I hate getting up at this unearthly hour, Treville," he lamented. "Why do people harp on about the beauty of the sunrise? It happens every day with tedious regularity."

The musketeers and Alaman bowed. Louis flicked a nervous look over them all.

Alaman straightened and went to crouch down at the base of one of the statues in the garden's gravel path. He took a vial from the inside of his coat and sprinkled some white powder onto the stone, then pinned a length of match cord in place next to it.

"Please, move back, back," he told the musketeers. "Please, Your Majesty, back."

They were already standing several feet away but nevertheless turned to put more distance between them and the statue.

"This had better be good, Athos," Louis muttered.

Athos certainly hoped so as well. There was barely enough powder there to fire a musket.

Alaman bent down again and struck a flint to light the cord, then quickly moved away. They all watched the fuse burn down toward the minuscule amount of powder…and then the entire statue exploded.

Everyone stumbled back in surprise. Athos saw Porthos whip out his sword in response.

The statue's head rolled across the gravel to come to a stop at the King's slippered feet. Louis laughed in delight and clapped his hands. Athos shared an impressed look with Treville. They all gathered around Alaman, coughing at the dust still billowing through the air.

The general held up his small, leather-bound vial. "A few grains of this miraculous powder could sink a galleon." He pulled a strip of parchment from a band around his wrist and held it out to Louis. "This paper contains the formula for the gunpowder."

The King took it and unrolled the strip. "But it's in code."

"Help me rescue my daughter and the machine needed to decipher it is yours."

"Why are you doing this?" Treville asked.

"Spain has turned against my people, the Moors. We are exiled or murdered. I am a fugitive, a wanted man. My daughter is all I have left in the world." Alaman turned to Louis. "Do we have a deal?"

Louis considered it for a moment, then nodded to Athos. "Proceed, Captain." He then quickly turned to go back inside the palace. Apparently, not even the allure of miraculous gunpowder could make him forget a witch was on the loose and that standing too close to Athos and the others could get him caught in the crossfire.

Treville remained. "Normally we would consult with the Spanish ambassador," he said. "But Spain has yet to send a replacement."

Alaman furrowed his brow. "What happened to Perales?"

"He's dead."

The general looked surprised. "I had not heard that."

"Long story," d'Artagnan muttered.

"I will make inquiries with the ambassador's remaining staff," Treville went on. "If your daughter is indeed being held hostage, the agents must have a way to get word to you."

Alaman nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us yet," Athos cautioned.

All they had done was struck a deal.

Now they had to fulfill it.

.o.0.o.

Rochefort stood on one of the Louvre's verandas, pondering his current dilemma. As official witch hunter to the King, it was his task to hunt down the witch Milady and bring her to justice. Doing so would only endear himself further to the King. On the other hand, her only goal—for the moment—was to destroy the Musketeers. And that was something Rochefort had no argument with.

So he had perhaps been dallying a bit more than he would have on any other hunt. It was a precarious tightrope he was walking, he knew that. He'd been able to prey on the King's fear of witches to weaken Louis's trust in his musketeers. But Rochefort's failure to produce results also ran the risk of backfiring and turning that displeasure back on himself.

Unfortunately, it wasn't just that he was taking his time hunting Milady; the witch was proving to be quite formidable, employing counter spells to throw off his ability to track her magic usage. He was going to have to fight fire with fire.

And just hope that in the meantime, she finally took out one or two of those musketeers.

He heard the doors a little ways down open and the Queen stepped outside. The morning sunlight caught her hair and splashed it with gold.

"Your Majesty," he greeted with a bow.

Her expression brightened with delight. "Rochefort. I had not expected to find you here."

He beamed; so she had given thought to where he might be.

"A fortuitous passing, then," he replied.

"I thought perhaps you would be advising the King on this business with the Spanish."

"I'm sure the Musketeers have it well in hand," he said smoothly. It was fortunate he'd killed Perales; he could well imagine how the ambassador would be pestering him to handle this situation with the traitorous general when Rochefort cared little for who ended up with the gunpowder and cipher.

Anne nodded. "Of course, you have enough to deal with hunting this witch." Her expression turned troubled.

Rochefort took a small step closer. "Your Majesty?" he prompted.

She tried to shake it off. "Have you made any progress? The King grows more fearful every day this witch remains a threat." She hesitated, ducking her gaze abashedly. "It is sometimes contagious."

Rochefort closed the distance between them, almost reaching out to offer comfort but catching himself at the last moment. "I have a new avenue for tracking down this witch that I was just about to employ," he said earnestly. "Have no fear, Your Majesty. I will make sure no harm comes to you."

Anne graced him with a small smile. "Thank you, Rochefort. Your dedication reassures me."

He stepped back so he could bow respectfully. "If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, I will get right on it."

As much as he would like for this witch to rid them all of the musketeers, his devotion to the Queen superseded everything. Rochefort would always put her well-being and faith in him above all else.

.o.0.o.

The woods were deadly silent, every critter from buck to mouse afraid to venture from their dens within fifty feet of the copse of trees where Milady stood, stirring her potions. She had set up a small cauldron over a camp fire, needing the open air for this next casting.

She wasn't worried about being spotted; she was on the King's personal hunting grounds and her spies had told her Louis was barely leaving the palace these days. It was illegal for anyone else to hunt on his property, but should some peasant be so bold as to try it, they would find themselves the prey. Milady had told Athos she was saving murder for later, but that didn't include the simple silencing of unfortunate witnesses.

The brew inside bubbled and frothed. Milady leaned down and whispered sinister susurrations over it. Tendrils of smoke began to waft up, and she blew on them, sending them up into the air and toward the city.

Her lips curved upward. Toward her next target.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Aramis stood leaning against one wall of Athos's office, idling fiddling with his hat in his hands. Porthos, d'Artagnan, and General Alaman were all standing around as well, waiting for information on what their next move would be.

Aramis straightened when he heard footsteps on the balcony outside.

"General Baltasar will exchange Samara for the cipher machine at the Place de l'Eglise at four," Athos announced as he entered. He shut the door behind him.

"On a market day?" d'Artagnan said. "It'll be packed."

"Treville has brokered a handover with the kidnappers."

"Baltasar hopes to hide himself amongst the crowd," Alaman said thoughtfully.

"You know this man?" Aramis asked.

"All too well. I once thought of him as a friend. He was my most trusted lieutenant. What I never knew was that he always hated me."

"What makes you say that?" Porthos asked.

Alaman gave a humorless huff. "I was born the wrong color. An issue you may be familiar with."

Porthos fidgeted ever so slightly. "Nothin' I can't handle."

"We were ordered to destroy a village," Alaman went on. "Kill every man, woman, and child. Loyal Moors, like me. Innocent people, whose only crime was their race. I refused. Baltasar didn't. That was when I understood what type of man he really was."

Aramis exchanged a subtle glance with the others. They were going to have to tread carefully.

"It would be helpful if we could see the cipher machine," Athos said.

Alaman hesitated for a moment. "At the square," he replied.

Athos's expression shifted, as though his own suspicions regarding the general had just been confirmed.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow and pointed an accusing finger at the man. "You don't trust us."

Alaman gazed back at him coolly. "I have no reason."

"Musketeers are men of honor," Athos told him seriously.

"The King of Spain swore he loved me, then had me arrested on false charges," Alaman replied vehemently. " _He_ was a man of honor too."

None of them had anything to say to that.

After another beat of silence, Alaman said, "I will see you at the square."

With that, he turned and strode out. The musketeers had no choice but to let him go.

"I don't trust Alaman," Porthos said as soon as the general was gone. "Somethin's wrong."

"We promised them the cipher and we don't even have it," d'Artagnan added.

"Alaman swears he will produce it," Athos replied, though by his tone they all knew what that was worth.

"The only thing I believe is that he truly loves his daughter," Aramis put in. That, at least, would motivate Alaman to hold up his end of the bargain.

"We should get ready," Athos said, heading for the door. "We won't be able to take the dragons. Not only is market day too crowded but they'd be easily seen. Aramis, you'll need a musket."

Aramis nodded, following after him. He paused at the door when he heard what sounded like a faint voice hissing at him. But Porthos and d'Artagnan were already at the stairs and there was no one left in Athos's office. The slithering whispers came again, then fell silent.

"What is it?" Athos called.

Aramis looked up and down the balcony. He shrugged it off. "Nothing. Let's go."

The musketeers headed out, Aramis making a stop at the armory to grab a musket. They made sure to arrive at the square several minutes early. No doubt Baltasar's people would have done the same. And the place was packed. Merchants stocked their carts with their wares and traded with customers. People strolled about, either shopping or simply out for a walk. Children went scurrying with laughter through the street.

"As soon as Alaman has his daughter, we strike," Athos said. "Aramis's first shot will take out Baltasar. With their leader gone, his men should surrender."

They all nodded and spread out. Aramis scanned the surrounding buildings for an optimal perch and picked the one with an open paned breezeway on the second level. He slipped inside and made his way up to the vacant hallway where he quickly set a candle on the sill and lit it. He then checked the match cord in the musket before setting it alight and taking up position at the window's ledge. He spotted Athos at a carrot stand across the square with d'Artagnan. Using the musket sight as a guide, he did a slow sweep of the square. There was Porthos with Alaman slowly making their way toward the center.

A harsh whisper sounded indistinctly from behind him and Aramis snapped his gaze around. But the hallway was empty. He narrowed his eyes at the darker stairway but couldn't see anyone hiding in its shadows.

He gave himself a rough shake and forced his attention back to the task at hand. Two men and a dark skinned girl had entered the square. One of the men had a firm grip on her arm and a hat concealed his face. The other was clearly this General Baltasar, leading the way toward Alaman. Aramis lined up his shot.

A crow came flying at him from out of nowhere with a raucous scream, talons clawing at his face, wings flapping wildly. He reeled backward, flailing his arm and musket to fight it off. He stumbled and fell, hitting the floor hard—and in the next instant, the bird was gone. Aramis whipped his gaze around in search of it.

But instead of the crow, his eyes landed on the figure of Marsac standing at the top of the stairs. His face was blue, eyes crusted with frost. Blood spurted from his chest abruptly and began pouring down his dirtied shirt.

Aramis scrambled back until he hit the wall under the window. He cast his hand around for the musket but froze as more visages of the other musketeers who'd died in Savoy surrounded him. Their mouths didn't move, but the harsh, grating whispers assaulted Aramis's senses. It seemed like they were yelling it was so loud, even though he could barely make out any words.

Marsac stepped forward, raising one arm and pointing an accusing finger at him. Aramis finally seized the musket and pulled the trigger, but the ball whizzed right through the specter into the wall.

The rest of them closed in on him.

.o.0.o.

Athos loitered next to one of the vendor's stalls, subtly roving his gaze around the square.

"Try one, sir," the woman offered.

Athos took the grape and casually popped it in his mouth. When d'Artagnan made his way over after doing a circuit of the square, she offered him a stem too. Athos spotted Porthos and Alaman arriving. The general had a wooden box tucked under one arm.

"He's got the cipher."

D'Artagnan flicked a sidelong look Alaman's direction, then away again. "Second archway from the left."

Athos slid his gaze that direction, noting the two men looking around the square intently, hands a little too close to their weapons.

"Two more by the bread," he commented as he turned back.

And then there was Baltasar with another soldier and the general's daughter, making their way toward Alaman and Porthos. Athos and d'Artagnan held their position. A few words were exchanged, then the soldier nudged Samara toward her father.

"Come on, Aramis," d'Artagnan uttered, glancing up at the window.

Athos was growing tense. "What's he waiting for?"

They watched the exchange proceed to the point where Alaman handed over the cipher. Dammit, this was going too far.

Baltasar turned around and opened the wooden box—and it was empty.

Athos mentally reeled back in dismay.

Baltasar turned and threw the box at Porthos, yelling, "It's a trick!"

Athos and d'Artagnan drew their weapons.

"Down!" he shouted at everyone nearby.

One of Baltasar's men fired a crossbow their way but hit a woman in the back instead. She screamed and went rigid as she slowly sank to the ground. A musket shot struck the nearby archway. Athos tried to shoot back, but there were too many people running in fright by now. Another Spanish agent hit another peasant with a crossbow bolt. Athos couldn't get a line of sight.

D'Artagnan moved around the other side of the archway but was taken by surprise when an assailant knocked the pistol out of his hand. The two of them ended up fighting over one of the merchant stalls, as did Athos and the Spanish agent that came directly at him.

Stands were overturned and wares strewn about. Athos flipped over the stand he was trapped behind, knocking it over onto his opponent. He then fired his pistol through the wood into the man underneath.

Alaman was fighting two agents with a single sword, so Athos grabbed another pistol and shot one of them. The general cut down the other, then turned back and finished off the shot man for good measure. The battle seemed to be over, though citizens were still running and screaming in every direction.

"Samara!" Alaman called, turning in a circle. "Samara!"

Athos looked around as well. D'Artagnan picked his way toward him, but there was no sign of Porthos, or the girl. Wounded and dead lay all throughout the street.

Athos stormed over to Alaman. "You never had any intention of handing over the cipher!"

Alaman looked truly devastated by what had happened, that he'd lost his daughter once again. "That is true," he admitted. "But I had my reasons."

"Look at this!" d'Artagnan hissed, gesturing sharply at the havoc. "Innocent people are dead. A musketeer has been taken hostage! And you still think you have a winning hand?"

"I was once a man of status," Alaman bitterly responded. "A respected figure. Now I am hounded out of my own country. Believe me, I have no hand to play."

"Then why gamble with your daughter's life?" Athos demanded. He'd truly thought Alaman had been sincere in his goals here.

"Because I had no choice!"

D'Artagnan scowled and turned away. "More games…"

"I had no choice because I do not have the cipher." Alaman took a breath. "Samara does."

D'Artagnan's brows shot upward. "What?"

"I am sorry I lied. I put your friend in danger. I didn't do it lightly. Now, I humbly beg for your help. I don't know where they've taken Samara. Help me find her and I will give you what you want. The cipher and with it the formula for the gunpowder."

D'Artagnan shook his head like he didn't trust him. They frankly had no reason to. And at the moment there was a lot of damage control to manage. This was, after all, a Musketeer mission gone horribly wrong.

Athos frowned when he realized Aramis had yet to come down from his perch. Had Baltasar's men found him before he could take the planned shot, and they had two musketeers missing?

"Go back to the garrison for reinforcements," Athos told d'Artagnan. "Take Alaman with you."

D'Artagnan shot the general another scathing look that warned of repercussions should he try to protest.

Athos wove his way through the still stunned bystanders toward the building Aramis had gone inside. The place was quiet and empty, and he quickened his pace up the stairs. He did not expect to find Aramis huddled on the floor in the corner under the windowsill, hands clutching the sides of his head.

The marksman jerked his musket at Athos's entrance and squeezed the trigger. Athos flinched at the sharp click in the quiet hall, but then realized the musket had already been fired. He gaped at his friend in shock.

"Aramis?"

Aramis blinked rapidly. "Athos?"

Athos raised his hands non-threateningly. "Aramis, what happened?"

His eyes flicked to the side and widened in fear. "Don't you see them? They're all here. Marsac, and the others. I can't understand what they're saying!" Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as though trying to dispel whatever hallucination was plaguing him.

Athos's blood ran cold. "Milady," he breathed. He cautiously moved closer and crouched down in front of Aramis. "Listen to me, they're not real."

Aramis opened his eyes to look back at him, though his gaze kept shifting past Athos's shoulders. Athos couldn't help but glance behind him, but there was nothing there that he could see. But then, nobody had been able to see Thomas's ghost when he'd been haunting Athos.

Athos clenched his fists in anger. Damn it, of all the times for Milady to strike. And again, coming after one of his brothers instead of directly at him.

Aramis closed his eyes again and sucked in a harsh breath like he was trying to rally himself. "What happened?" he gritted out. "I- I wasn't able to take the shot."

Athos's chest constricted. "Baltasar got away, with Samara. Alaman didn't even have the cipher to trade them for her." He hesitated. "Porthos was taken as well."

Aramis whipped his gaze up, expression horrified.

"This was not your fault," Athos said firmly.

But he knew it was a futile gesture. After all, wasn't he blaming himself for this situation right here?

And now he was down two men and had no idea how to fix either situation.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Porthos felt groggy and his head ached. He was aware enough to register the hard floor beneath his supine body and the tinkle of water somewhere, but that was it. Until something pressed down on his leg and fire erupted through it.

He bolted upright, lashing his hands out to seize his assailant's throat. "What are you doing?" he growled.

The woman grunted and shoved his rather weak grip off of her. "Making sure you don't bleed to death," she snapped. "If that leg becomes infected, you'll lose it."

He fell back on the wooden floor with pained moans.

"Is there much demand for one-legged musketeers?" the girl—Samara, she must have been—went on brusquely. "Not that you were much more use with two."

Porthos gaped at her in disbelief while trying to ride out the waves of agony. "Not much of a nurse are ya," he retorted, gripping the support beam beside him to lever himself upright.

"I'm not a nurse. I'm a poet." She tossed the bloody wet rag into his lap and stood up. "Fix your own leg."

Porthos panted as he shifted to get a look around the barren room with a few rags and jugs sitting randomly on the floor. "Where are we?"

"Baltasar's safe house."

Well, shit.

Porthos tried to get to his feet, crying out as his thigh jolted with each tiny bit of movement from the crossbow bolt sticking out of it just above the knee. He couldn't bend his leg at all or support any weight, and he ended up pitching sideways and barely catching himself with one hand on the floor.

"Are you in pain?" Samara asked.

Porthos took a moment to lean awkwardly against the column behind him, breaths still coming short and fast. "Yeah. A little bit," he huffed.

"Something went wrong with the exchange," she said.

"Yeah, your father lied to us and nearly got you killed. That's what went wrong." And now he had a bloody bolt sticking out of his leg and was imprisoned by the Spanish.

"He trusted you French to save us and you made a mess of everything," she shot back angrily.

Porthos hobbled his way over to the next support column, catching himself against it with a grunt.

"It's _locked_ ," Samara said pointedly, apparently having guessed his intention to make it to the door. "And Baltasar has men guarding the house."

Of course he did. Porthos debated for a second whether to stubbornly keep going before a wave of dizziness overcame him and he fell onto his back on the hard floor. Damn it.

Samara walked over to a small nest of a blanket and took a seat, picking up a book. "I'm going to read now. If you decide to die, please, do it quietly."

Porthos lifted himself up and reached for his leg, only to abort the movement and collapse again. Yeah, this was really not good.

After a few minutes of getting his breathing under control, he carefully leveraged himself up again, gritting his teeth against the fresh burst of pain, and began dragging himself back to the other column. The effort cost him and he was shaking by the time he'd gotten himself propped up against it. Shaking which only ignited more fire in his leg, and it was taking all his willpower to try to hold still and not aggravate it further.

"It must hurt," Samara spoke up. "Cry if you want."

"No, thank you," he replied shakily, then choked on a gasp.

"What is your name?" she asked, nicer than before.

"Porthos." He let out a shuddering breath. "We need to get out."

"What are you going to do?" she replied dryly. "Punch through the walls?"

Porthos nodded jerkily. "If it comes to it." Better than just sitting here waiting for the Spanish to decide what to do with them. He looked down at the wooden shaft protruding from his leg and reached out to grasp it.

But just a single touch sent streaks of lightning through the muscle and he reeled back with a pained grunt.

"What's the book?" he asked, desperate for a distraction.

"Poems. By the mystic Umar Ibn al-Farid." She paused. "Do you read Arabic?"

Porthos shook his head. "I'm not a Moor. I'm French."

"You might have been born in this country, but that doesn't make you French," Samara said scornfully. "In their eyes, you are at best an exotic stranger, at worst a mongrel."

Porthos wanted to roll his eyes, but the pain was too consuming for him to do anything other than bite back another strangled sound.

"I am a Moor," Samara went on. "I'm going home to Morocco. Where are you from?"

"France," he replied tersely, but then faltered. "And Africa," he admitted. "On my mother's side."

"Which part of Africa?"

Porthos realized he didn't know. It'd never mattered to him, and his mother had never taught him anything about it. Or maybe he'd been too young to remember any details like that.

Samara's words stung, though, because there was truth in them. Just recently he'd had the displeasure of meeting a French slave trader, a man who had no qualms about buying men, women, and children like chattel all because of their skin color.

"Well," Samara continued at his silence, "wherever it was, that is where you belong. In the end, your adopted country will betray you, as mine did me."

Porthos lifted his head and turned to look at her. "I know who I am," he said staunchly. "And what I am." He shifted his gaze to the crossbow bolt. He was a musketeer, dammit.

He clamped one hand around the base of the shaft and grasped it with the other, steeling himself as he started to pull with all his might. His strength was hampered by the pain, though, and after only a few moments, it became too much and he had to stop, throwing his head back with a loud cry.

He heard Samara sigh. "Would you like to hear some poetry?" she asked.

"I'd prefer a brandy," he gasped, tossing a look her way.

She actually smiled at that. "Poetry is all I have."

"Poetry it is, then." He'd take anything to help distract from the agony in his leg. Anything other than talk of lost heritages and the reality of racism he'd rather pretend didn't affect him.

Samara started to read, her voice and the cadence of the words washing over him. Porthos closed his eyes and focused on that, praying his brothers found a way to rescue them.

.o.0.o.

Athos stood in the doorway between his outer office and bedchamber, watching Aramis pace back and forth across the room, hands clasped against his ears trying to drown out the voices only he could hear from ghosts only he could see. Every so often he would flinch, though from what Athos could only guess.

The door swung open and Treville stormed in, looking very much like the enraged captain that used to rake his men over the coals for shoddy work.

"What happened?" he demanded.

Athos flicked a concerned glance at Aramis, but the marksman was so consumed by his ghosts that he didn't seem to register Treville's loud entrance. Athos moved away from the doorframe and proceeded to recount what had gone wrong, feeling more like a lieutenant again than a captain himself.

Treville gaped at him, looking like he didn't even know where to start. "Alaman never had the cipher," he finally said.

"No."

Treville exhaled sharply and shifted in place as though he wanted to hit or throw something. Athos understood the feeling. Treville then turned his attention to the bedroom and walked over to peer through the open door at Aramis, his expression pinching.

"It's worse than when my wife sent my brother's ghost to me," Athos said quietly. "From what I gathered in his more lucid moments, he's seeing every musketeer who died at Savoy. And hearing them, though I don't know what they're saying."

Nothing good, by the looks of it.

Treville's mouth thinned into a tight line. "I can put Rochefort on Milady's trail again, but with Porthos now a hostage of the Spanish and the cipher in their hands—and we can only hope they don't realize they have it—"

"I know," Athos interrupted. The Musketeers had to focus their attentions on rescuing Porthos and Samara and obtaining the cipher. "Rhaego should be able to track Porthos."

Treville nodded. "Hurry. No doubt the King will hear of what happened in the square soon."

Footsteps drew their attention to the outer door as d'Artagnan and Constance hurried inside.

"How is he?" Constance immediately asked.

Athos stepped aside so she could see for herself.

Aramis had stopped pacing and had slid down to the floor in the corner, rocking in place.

"We'll rescue Porthos first," Athos said. "Then do what we can to help Aramis." He nodded to Constance. "Thank you for staying with him."

"Of course," she said, casting a worried look around at them all. "Bring him home."

He gave a staunch nod and the rest of them headed out. Athos had already summoned a host of dragon riders to get ready to accompany them. Subtlety had been utilized before and failed; this time he was going to bring a full show of force.

.o.0.o.

Falkor watched the mass of dragons leave the garrison next door with disinterest. He disliked being around all these other dragons. Even before his imprisonment, he had been the sole dragon on the Comte de Rochefort's estate, not to mention their witch hunting ventures had been solitary missions with just the two of them.

Falkor wanted to be back home, not here in Paris and not in this dragon compound with a pair of piddly humans and one infant female trying to fuss over him.

"Falkor!" Rochefort's grating voice resounded across the yard.

Falkor turned his head wearily toward his rider as Rochefort strode toward him.

"We must make another search for the witch," he pronounced, holding out a bronze compass with various sigil work etched all along the sides. "This time I will pierce the veil of her counter spells with a bit of magic on my end."

Falkor narrowed his eyes scathingly. Humans shouldn't dare touch magic; he thought his rider understood that.

Rochefort rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. Desperate times call for desperate measures. This witch has proven too elusive thus far, and if we do not catch her soon, the King will have us both thrown out."

If that meant they could go home, Falkor didn't see a problem with that. He grumbled low in his throat and turned his head away.

"Get up, damn you," Rochefort hissed.

Falkor snorted and didn't move. He had no intention of helping his rider if the human insisted on using spelled articles in his work.

"You useless creature!" Rochefort spat.

"Is something wrong?" the dragon keeper's voice interrupted.

Rochefort straightened abruptly. "I require a dragon for an errand on behalf of the King," he replied smoothly. He was always good at covering like that. "But Falkor doesn't seem up to it. Would you provide another for me to use?"

Bonacieux hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. "I can get Zhar for you again."

"Fine."

Bonacieux went off to retrieve the other dragon.

Falkor could feel Rochefort's glower boring into the back of his head but he ignored it. This was a matter in which he had no room for compromise. Magic was sacred and no human was to ever, ever touch it.


	4. Chapter 4

Constance stood in the doorway of Athos's bedroom, unsure whether she should try to move in closer or keep her distance. Aramis didn't seem to know she was there. He was huddled on the floor in the corner, hands clapped firmly to the sides of his head, eyes squeezed shut.

"Aramis?" she called. "It's me, Constance. Can you hear me?"

To her surprise, he looked up, blinking rapidly as his gaze struggled to fix on her.

"Constance?" He scrambled to his feet. "No! Leave her alone!"

She couldn't help looking around, but of course there was no one there. "Aramis, I'm fine. No one's here."

His eyes were wide with terror. "Marsac, don't. She's innocent!"

Constance moved forward, reaching out to him. "Aramis—"

He recoiled sharply, bumping against the wall at his back and dropping to the floor again where he buried his face in his hands. "Stop, please stop," fell from his lips in desperate pleas.

Constance's heart clenched and she stayed where she was, feeling helpless and not knowing what to do. This was black magic, and what was there that any of them could do? Except find Milady and make her reverse the spell, like when she'd stolen Porthos's eyes. But the Musketeers had to rescue Porthos from the Spanish first.

And in the meantime, all Constance could do was watch Aramis sink further into madness and wonder whether they'd be able to bring him back at all.

.o.0.o.

Porthos sucked in a sharp breath and tried again to steel himself. "I need you to stop the bleeding," he called over to Samara.

She put her book down and hurried over to him, looking at his leg worriedly. "What bleeding?"

"When I pull the bolt out."

"You're mad. You'll die!"

"People have said that before and I'm still here."

And as much as he wanted to believe his brothers would find them, he couldn't just lie around waiting.

"Tie off my leg. And I'll need some bandages."

He struggled to get his belt off as Samara began to rip strips of fabric off her skirts. Porthos slipped the belt around his thigh above the bolt, beginning to breathe in shorter, faster gasps at the prospect of just how much this was going to hurt. Samara took hold of the belt and Porthos turned his head to take the collar of his leather coat between his teeth. He then nodded to her.

She yanked the belt tight and he immediately grabbed the shaft and yanked with one harsh move. The shaft ripped free with a squelch and Porthos yelled into his coat. Samara picked up the rags of her skirt and pressed them to the wound.

"How are you feeling?"

Porthos nodded jerkily. "Better."

"It doesn't hurt as much?" she asked incredulously.

"No, it's worse. But now," he held up the removed bolt, "I've got a weapon."

He struggled to push himself to his feet, but this time Samara actually helped, and he hobbled his way to stand behind the other pillar closest to the door.

"Bunch your blanket up to make it look like I'm sleepin' there," he instructed.

Samara moved away to do as he said. "Now what?"

"Now you get their attention by tellin' 'em I'm dead."

She arched a dubious brow but went to the door. "Hello!" she shouted. "Your musketeer hostage is dead!"

Porthos shook his head; nice to know she was as brusque with everyone as she'd been with him, even her captors.

A few moments later the sound of clomping footsteps came from the other side of the door. Samara backed up several feet, keeping her distance. The lock clicked and a guard entered, striding toward the mound of blankets. As soon as he passed the pillar, Porthos surged forward and grabbed him from behind, holding the bolt head to the man's face.

"My leg hurts," he growled. "Someone's going to pay for it. Make sure it's not you."

He then snatched the man's pistol off his belt and nodded to Samara. Together, they slipped out of the room and down the hall, where they came upon Baltasar and a flunky in another room. Both of them quickly whipped out their pistols in response and the lackey fired right away, but the ball struck the wall.

Porthos glowered back, his human shield held tightly against him and his weapon aimed back at them. He hadn't been lying about his leg.

"One shot. Who's it going to be?" he bellowed.

.o.0.o.

Rhaego had been understandably worried about Aramis and slightly reluctant to leave the garrison without him. But to his credit, he'd also recognized the urgency in finding Porthos. Five Musketeer dragon riders took to the skies and circled the square as Rhaego went down to pick up the scent of Porthos's blood from the street. Athos felt marginally bad for the fright it gave everyone still in the area, but it was necessary. And with the blood still fresh, Rhaego was immediately able to pick up the scent.

He tracked it to a building only two blocks from the square, which made sense; Baltasar's men had disappeared with Porthos rather quickly. The dragons swooped in over the large courtyard, not quite landing but giving enough space for their riders to hop down, then they spread out to completely surround the place.

Athos was still formulating a plan of attack when they heard a shot go off inside, which decided things for them. Drawing their pistols, the musketeers stormed the building.

The door they kicked in led to a narrow foyer with a set of stairs that headed straight up to the next level. They were fish in a barrel, and men at the top of the steps immediately fired down at them. D'Artagnan barely jerked away in time to avoid being hit. Athos shot another man before he could fire, and they charged up the stairs to find Porthos on the floor, a pistol aimed at his head, and another man restraining Samara. The five musketeers lined up and drew their pistols.

"Put down your weapons," Athos ordered.

"You have no authority here," Baltasar snapped.

"That man is a King's Musketeer and the girl is under protection from the Spanish Crown," Athos replied. "Release them."

"They mean nothing to me," Baltasar responded. "I want Tariq."

"And here I am."

Athos flicked a startled look over his shoulder, jaw tightening as Alaman strode up the steps. He must have followed the rather obvious troop of dragons to this location. The musketeers held their ground, not allowing him to push his way through fully.

Baltasar's eyes lit with hatred and he gestured to his man, who drew a knife and held it to Samara's throat. "Your choice, Tariq."

"I will return to Spain of my own free will," he replied. "And explain how the cipher works. But only if you release my daughter."

Baltasar sneered at him. "You haven't even produced the cipher. I should kill your daughter right here and now."

"No!" Alaman took a breath. "The cipher is in Samara's book."

The girl's eyes blew wide with fury. "You shouldn't have told him. I'd rather die than help them!"

"I know, my love," Alaman said, expression pained. "But I want you to live."

Baltasar looked at him skeptically before going over to the girl and yanking the white book from her hand. "General Alaman and the cipher will stay here," he declared. "The girl and the musketeer can leave."

The men holding weapons on the hostages stepped back.

"I won't go without my father," Samara said staunchly.

Alaman pushed past d'Artagnan and moved toward her. The Spanish didn't stop him. "You must go," he said fervently, taking her by the arms. "As long as you are free, I will always be at your side. Samara, listen to me, the world that we knew is dead. You have to build a new one where our people can live in dignity and with peace. That is your task now. Now go. Go!" He pushed her toward the musketeers.

Athos and d'Artagnan kept their pistols raised as Etienne and Geoffrey moved in to help Porthos off the floor. Athos wasn't thrilled with this turn of events, but they were at a stalemate, and he chose to prioritize getting Porthos and the girl out before reevaluating how to handle the rest. With the dragons surrounding the place, the Spanish were not going to get away with the cipher.

They made their way out of the building, retreating only to the courtyard.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked as he came up alongside a limping Porthos.

"Fine," he said gruffly. "But what now?"

"Those three windows are the room," d'Artagnan said, pointing. "A dragon could break in, catch them off guard."

"Any assault on Spanish citizens will provoke a diplomatic incident," Athos pointed out reluctantly.

"They're operating on French soil," d'Artagnan countered.

Athos nodded; it wasn't ideal, but they needed to make their move. "Prepare to enter the building."

"Please," Samara interjected. "My father is in there."

"We'll do our best to get him out," Porthos promised.

Athos signaled Savron to make an assault on the windows, but before the dragon could get close, the building suddenly exploded with a massive concussive force that knocked everyone off their feet and showered the entire courtyard with rubble. Dragons shrieked in surprise and leaped away from the shrapnel flying at them.

Athos coughed on a mouthful of dust as he scrambled to his feet again.

"Father!" Samara screamed. "Father! Father! No!"

She stumbled toward the smoking ruins, but Porthos managed to catch her and hold her back, wrapping her in his arms and trying to soothe her.

Athos stared in disbelief at the wreckage. Alaman had been willing to die rather than give up the cipher to Spain. But he didn't have to! He could have waited and trusted the Musketeers to get him out. Instead of this colossal waste.

The others went to pick through the rubble in case there were any survivors. Porthos stayed with Samara until her sobs died down, and then d'Artagnan stepped in and gently guided her over to Ayelet to fly her back to the garrison. Athos put a hand on Porthos's arm and steered him toward Savron.

Porthos pulled up short and frowned when he spotted Rhaego amongst the dragons but without a saddle. "Where's Aramis?"

Athos looked at him grimly. "I'll explain on the way back to the garrison."

.o.0.o.

Rochefort held his new compass in his hand as his borrowed dragon made a circuit above the city. Unlike his other tracker, this one's arrows were all pointing him toward the woods outside the palace.

He directed the dragon to land on the outskirts and then proceeded on foot on his own, the arrows guiding him straight and true. He pulled a special, jeweled dagger from his belt and gripped it firmly as he navigated his way under the trees, senses peeled for his quarry.

He smelled the woodsmoke before he found the campsite. A cauldron was cooking something over an open fire and a woman in black was leaning over it, waving her hand through the tendrils of smoke. Even from this distance, he recognized the widow from the church the night he'd been hunting the necromancer.

Eyes hardening, Rochefort stepped quietly over the forest floor. The witch was absorbed in her spell and didn't hear him approaching. Rochefort slunk up and grabbed her roughly from behind, pressing the dagger to her throat.

She hissed in surprise and opened her mouth, probably to cast a spell, but Rochefort pushed the blade harder against her skin, nicking it.

"Ah, ah, ah," he warned. "Let's keep that forked tongue behind your teeth."

He could feel her shaking with rage, and for a brief moment, he let himself relish in the power he held over her. Killing her would be swift in this position, one quick slice through porcelain flesh.

But he didn't. He stretched out his leg and kicked over the cauldron, spilling its contents across the ground.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said in her ear. "Stop toying with the musketeers and just kill them. Then leave Paris and never return. Or I will have you burned at the stake."

"You don't frighten me," she seethed.

Rochefort smirked and rotated the dagger just enough to caress her neck with the edge of it, eliciting a sharp gasp. "I found you once; I'll find you again. This is your one chance to exact your revenge once and for all and live. I suggest you take it."

He waited an extra beat to press his point home, then released her. She spun away from him, eyes blazing with fury.

"Don't forget to clean this up," he said blithely, flicking his gaze at the spilled cauldron. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

With any luck, he could kill two birds with one stone…


	5. Chapter 5

The voices were too much—harsh, grating words spat viciously from the mouths of men he once considered friends and brothers. Aramis clamped his hands over his ears but he couldn't shut them out. They were inside his head.

_"You left us."_

_"Coward."_

_"Deserter."_

"No," he choked out. "That's not the way it happened."

Bloodless faces bored holes into him, even in his mind's eye when he tried to look away from the pale specters standing all around him. But they were relentless, and there was nowhere he could go to escape them.

Then, all of a sudden, in a breath of hushed wind, they silenced. Aramis stilled, unsure of what was happening. He slowly lifted his head to look around the room. The ghosts were gone. He furrowed his brow, not recognizing his surroundings initially, then he realized he was in Athos's rooms at the garrison. Constance was standing in the doorway, arms hugging herself tightly and expression pinched with anguish as she watched him.

Aramis hesitated, fearing it some sort of trick or shift in reality again, but he cautiously began to unfurl from his position on the floor. "Constance?" he called hoarsely.

She straightened sharply. "Aramis? Are you…?"

He levered himself up onto his feet. "I'm here," he said, though even that much he wasn't entirely sure of.

She crossed the room swiftly and took his hands in hers, guiding him to take a seat on the bed. "What happened?" she asked, sitting next to him.

"I…don't know," he said, casting a nervous look around the room again. "It just…stopped."

Constance exhaled heavily. "Thank God."

Aramis tried to get his muddled thoughts in order. "Where are the others?"

"They went to rescue Porthos."

His heart clenched. Of course, the exchange where he'd failed to take the shot and Porthos had been taken hostage as a result.

"I'm sure they'll be back soon," Constance added.

Aramis nodded mutely.

She reached over and squeezed his hand in commiserative silence, and the two of them simply sat like that for a long time until the sound of dragon wings echoed from outside.

Aramis stood and headed for the door, heart in his throat. Five dragon riders and Rhaego had landed in the yard, and to his immense relief, Porthos was with them. And Alaman's daughter. Aramis and Constance made their way downstairs to meet them, Aramis frowning at Porthos's prominent limp and bloodstained bandage tied around his leg.

Athos looked at him in surprise. "Aramis?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm all right," he said, though his voice perhaps belied the strength of that statement. He couldn't deny he was shaken by what he'd gone through. But he turned his attention to Porthos's obvious injury. "Has that been treated?"

"It'll keep," Porthos replied, eyeing him with concern. Even having not witnessed the ordeal, Aramis knew Porthos could see the toll it'd taken clearly written in the lines of his face.

"Do you think Rochefort found Milady?" d'Artagnan put in.

Porthos snorted. "Wouldn't that be somethin'."

"Or she's keeping to her previously stated intentions of only temporarily torturing us for the time being," Aramis said, cringing at the exhaustion tinging his voice.

There was a grim silence at that.

"Come on," Constance interjected. "Both of you to the infirmary."

"I'll send Doctor Lemay over," Athos said. He reached out to give Aramis a furtive squeeze on his arm.

Aramis gave a small nod of gratitude, then turned and offered a supportive shoulder to Porthos as they shuffled their way to the infirmary.

.o.0.o.

Athos was not looking forward to giving his report to the King. This entire venture had been botched from the start, but as captain, Athos bore the responsibility for it all.

He stopped to ask Doctor Lemay to check on Porthos before making his way to the library where he knew the King and Treville were waiting for him. To his irritation, Rochefort was present as well. It was like the man had a sixth sense about when he could bear witness to the Musketeers' humiliation.

Louis was already worked up after hearing about the disaster in the square, and his expression only became more livid as Athos recounted what happened at the house.

"I wanted that gunpowder, Athos," he said tersely. "Now the machine is destroyed, Alaman is dead, and the secret is lost forever."

"But at least the Spanish do not have it either, Sire," Treville put in, and Athos appreciated the effort to take some of the heat off of him, but it was undeserved.

"Yes," Louis said tautly. "That is some compensation. But I am disappointed. Not to mention the witch Milady had a hand in bungling this entire affair!"

Athos's jaw tightened. "The spell she cast on Aramis has been reversed," he said, then turned his attention to Rochefort. "I don't suppose you finally made progress in your hunt for her?"

"I have," he replied smugly. "I found her campsite in the woods outside the palace this afternoon. Unfortunately, she had already vacated it. Still, my latest tracking method has proven effective, and it's only a matter of time before I catch her."

Louis blanched. "So close to the palace?"

"Not too close, Sire," Rochefort quickly assured him. "But continued caution is advisable."

The King shook his head, obviously unsettled. "It is clear that my Musketeers can't protect me if they can't even protect themselves. Rochefort, I know you have a lot on your plate with hunting this witch, but would you consent to taking over the captaincy of the palace guard? It has been a hotchpotch of men ever since the Cardinal's Red Guard was disbanded."

Athos's jaw was likely to crack in the next few seconds, he was clenching it so hard.

Rochefort inclined his head in acceptance. "It would be my honor, Your Majesty."

Louis nodded gratefully. "Walk with me, then. We have much to discuss."

The two of them left the library, leaving Athos and Treville standing there alone, frustration evident on each of their faces. With each failure on the part of the Musketeers, Rochefort gained an extra foothold in the King's confidence. And yet he hadn't produced results in his own task to apprehend Milady. Athos didn't know whether to believe his story about her campsite in the woods. Perhaps he would have to make time to go out and look around for himself.

"Aramis is all right?" Treville asked, breaking the silence.

"He seems recovered," Athos replied carefully. "'All right'…might take some time."

Treville nodded in understanding. "Sometimes we do the best we can and it doesn't end up being enough," he said sagely.

Athos was quiet for a moment. "Is that what you would tell yourself?"

Treville huffed, acknowledging the double standard. Disappointing others was a hard draught to swallow.

.o.0.o.

Porthos limped around to Vrita's other side so he could run the bristle brush over her scales. She shifted, trying to help, but he still had to duck under her head. He gave her an appreciative pat at her effort though.

His leg was sore but healing. Doctor Lemay had stitched him up proper and said there shouldn't be any permanent damage. He wouldn't be riding his dragon for a few days.

Porthos cast a glance across the yard to where Rhaego was laid out in the sun with Aramis sitting on the ground leaning against him. Porthos was worried about him; he'd been withdrawn since his experience with the ghosts from Savoy. Athos hadn't been able to give him details of what Aramis had gone through. The marksman hadn't tried to describe it to any of them. Porthos couldn't imagine being haunted by those faces, and he mentally cursed Milady every time he thought about it.

He went back to brushing Vrita, all the while keeping a close eye on Aramis.

Vrita snuffled in his hair and cocked her head at something over his shoulder. Porthos turned and smiled when he saw Samara standing a safe distance away.

"Hello," he said brightly.

She smiled back but cast a hesitant look at the dragon.

"Don't be afraid," he said, beckoning her to come closer. "She doesn't bite pretty ladies."

Samara blushed and cautiously came over. "She is yours?"

Porthos nodded proudly. "That she is. Samara, this is Vrita. Vrita, Samara."

Vrita dipped her head in acknowledgement.

"You want to brush her?" Porthos asked.

Samara quirked a brow at him. "Brush her?"

He grinned and took her hand in his, sliding the brush into her palm. Then with his hand guiding hers, he proceeded to scrape the bristles over Vrita's scales. The dragon vibrated with pleasure.

Samara giggled.

After a few more strokes, she stepped back and turned to Porthos. "I'm leaving for Morocco this evening," she told him.

Porthos raised his brows sharply with incredulity. "Do you actually know anything about the place?"

She laughed. "No. But I'll learn. And it will be my children's home. They will belong there."

Porthos shrugged at that.

"You should search for your own home, too, one day," she went on.

Porthos shook his head and wagged a finger around at the garrison. "You're looking at it." He smiled, and for a moment Samara shared it, but then she said,

"These are not your people, Porthos. However hard you try, you will never truly be one of them."

He tried to bite back a sigh at this same old thing. "I'm a Musketeer," he said. "A dragon rider." He tossed a fond smile Vrita's way and she beamed back at him. "That's home enough for me."

His people were those he chose to stand by, to love and protect with every fiber of his being. His gaze drifted back toward Aramis. That was his brother in all but blood. And even then, that had spilt plenty together in battle that by soldier standards, they were blood brothers.

Samara finally nodded. "I have something for you." She held out a book.

Porthos quirked a brow at her in surprise as he took the offered item and opened the cover. "Ah, poems," he said, not quite sure what to say to that. He settled on a wide smile and, "Thank you."

Samara nodded. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "For…trying to save my father."

"He was a great man," Porthos replied seriously. "A hero."

"He taught me everything." Her eyes watered and her voice wavered. "Life is going to be so hard without him."

Porthos shifted in discomfort. "I, er, I never knew my father growin' up," he said.

"Not at all?"

"No, he, er, abandoned us. I finally met him a year ago and…let's just say a great man he was not. Samara, no matter how much you're hurting right now, I'd rather be in your position. When the grief fades, you'll still have his memory. Treasure that."

A tear finally slipped free to slide down her cheek.

"It's a gift," he went on, and she nodded shakily as she fought to hold back more tears.

She reached out to take him by the arms and stretched up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "Goodbye. Brother."

He nodded in return and watched her turn and walk out of the garrison. He looked down at the book she'd given him and huffed out a laugh. Then with a glance at Aramis again, he cocked his head for Vrita to follow and hobbled his way over to Rhaego.

"Samara's gone," he said without preamble. "She's going back to Morocco."

Aramis looked up, his eyes still dull and haunted, a small crease in his forehead revealing he was struggling to catch up with Porthos's words. "That's quite a journey," he finally said.

"Mm." Porthos reached behind him to use Vrita as a brace so he could lower himself to the ground without bending his leg too much. He couldn't hold back a small grunt as he straightened it out in front of him. Aramis frowned.

"She gave me a book of poetry," Porthos went on, waving the item in his hand. "I didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't really my thing."

Aramis's lips quirked a small fraction at that.

Porthos held the book out to him. "Will you read some? I'm curious."

Aramis gave him a soft look and leaned forward to take the book, then settled back against Rhaego and opened to the first page.

"'From his light, the niche of my essence enlightened me; by means of me, my nights blazed morning bright. I made me witness my being there for I was he; I witnessed him as me, the light, my splendor…'"

Porthos listened to Aramis read aloud, listened to his voice gaining traction and steadiness as he went, and felt affirmed in this found family that made up for anything else he might have been missing in a land far away from France, from the Musketeers, and from his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> Milady retaliates against Rochefort, inflicting a magical wound that will prove fatal unless the Musketeers make a journey to the Jura for a miracle cure. But Milady isn't about to make it easy for them.


End file.
